


Deadeye

by existentialspacecowboy



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Cowboys, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Mild Blood, The Wild Wild West, but thankfully riza is there to lend a hand, ex-sheriff roy, gunslinger riza, mild violence, roy is straight up not having a good time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/existentialspacecowboy/pseuds/existentialspacecowboy
Summary: A Royai Cowboy/Western AU inspired by 5hio over on Tumblr and written as a part of Cowboytober 2020.She’s the sharpest shooter across the whole frontier, and he starts bar fights for fun.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 13
Kudos: 37





	1. the deadeye

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this was meant to be short at around 500 words but ended up being longer  
> i'm kinda in love with this au  
> so if this gets some love, i may turn it into a fully blown fic :3
> 
> either way, i hope that y'all enjoy it  
> see ya round pardners  
> *tips hat*

Roy Mustang props up the bar like he’s a permanent staple. At this point, he might as well be. He’s spending money he cannot afford to all in the pursuit of futile pleasure and, _well_ , being _blind drunk_ is about all the fun a disgraced ex-sheriff can have.

He’s been in this town for a little while now, he’s not sure just _how long_ but his position at the bar is a well-worn groove, the knot in the mahogany bar-top his familiar propping post.

He frowns when a sudden, un-characteristic silence befalls the saloon. Blinking a few times to regain some semblance of concentration, he throws a scant glance in the direction of the _woman_ who has caused such a stir.

Nearby, Roy can’t help but overhear the muttered musings of two fellow drunkards; “Hawk in name and hawk by nature, she’s the deadliest sharpshooter there is. A real _deadeye_.”

Looking at her, Roy never would have guessed. He supposes there is a severeness about her, an intensity in her amber eyes, but there’s a softness in her face too and a gentleness in the curve of her jaw.

He realises he’s staring.

Turning back to the neck of his bottle, he swallows a hefty mouthful. The moonshine always hits his stomach like a freight-train, but that’s just how he likes it. It helps him to forget who he is and feel something besides the shame he shoulders each day.

Roy hasn’t shaven in days and hasn’t washed in even longer. There’s no way someone like her would ever pay him a second glance. He smells of booze, and reeks of disappointment; he’s not even sure that his aunt would look him in the eyes at this point. And even if she did, he’s not sure that she’d like what she’d see in them.

As the woman moves through the saloon, settling on a bar stool just a few feet away from him, Roy notes the way the room once again fills with the sound of casual conversations and the dulcet tones of a poorly tuned piano. Stroking a hand down his face, the four-day stubble scratches at his palm whilst he shakes the bottle in his free hand.

Almost empty.

Sighing, he takes his final mouthful, eyes once again on _her_. So engrossed, the man hardly notices when his bottle runs dry. 

But it does run dry.

In what is a familiar motion, Roy reaches into his pocket fumbling around for the necessary coin to fuel his next round, but he stops when his fingers don’t brush anything cool.

His eyes grow wide.

“Shit.”

Roy is faced with two choices; accept defeat and embrace sobriety, and its associated hangover, or find some way to keep drinking. He knows which choice he _should_ choose, but he also knows which choice he _wants_ to follow. _And_ the barman’s back is turned.

Craning his neck over the bar, Roy slots his mouth beneath one of the pumps, his hand clumsily reaching for the tap and tugging on it. He sighs, relieved, as ale gushes into his mouth, and it’s the closest thing to ecstasy he’s experienced in a very long time.

But like all other joys in Roy’s life as of late, it’s short-lived.

Roy’s stupor is rudely interrupted by a pair of large hands that grab him roughly by his collar. He swallows, looking up at the barkeep with doe-eyes. He’s reminded of all the times his aunt had scorned him for swiping dessert prematurely, and how he’d used these same innocent eyes to wrangle himself out of trouble every time.

Except, on this occasion, it doesn’t seem to work.

Roy swallows more thickly this time, forced bravado on his face, “Hey, I’ve spent days keeping this place in business, and I don’t even get one free drink? Talk about poor hospitality.”

_Big mistake_.

The barkeep’s face flushes a furious red, his jaw clenched and his hold on Roy’s collar intensifying.

“All you’ve done is _stink up_ my damn bar for the past week, and now you’re _stealing_ from me?”

Roy relents, immediately on the backfoot, “Look, I’m just a little low on funds right now. I’ll get the cash and –”

_Ouch_.

Roy’s hands dart upwards towards his face, cradling his nose that has just been fiercely sucker-punched.

There’s blood on his hands.

Quickly, the same blood that flows through Roy’s veins beings to boil, his quick temper sparking instantaneously into a raging inferno. He surges upwards, crashing the upper side of his forehead against the underside of the barman’s jaw.

The man’s hold on him releases, and Roy wipes his nose with the cuff of his jacket, something like a _real smile_ on his face.

“Damn, that feels _good_!” He declares brazenly, arms open and ready for his next attack, “Show me what you’ve really got you hulking _oaf_.”

But it isn’t just the barkeep this time.

There’s three men, all significantly taller than him, all with rage written across their features and they’re all skulking towards him.

Roy responds confidently, raising his hands and a wry smile plays at his bloodied lips, “Alright, gents, I’m sure we can talk about this.”

Cockily, he swings for the shortest of the men, but his fist is caught midway through its trajectory before it can make any bone-shattering contact. Colour draining from his face, Roy finds himself backed against a corner with the eyes of the whole saloon on him.

Caught by his throat, and hoisted with his back against the wall, he lashes out with his feet, desperately trying to make contact with one of the men and send them reeling, hopefully with their hands clutching the space between their legs. He’d stand a chance of landing a blow sober, but the cards are stacked against him whilst drunk.

A wheeze is forced from his lungs as one of the lackeys lays into his stomach, knocking the wind from him.

The grip on his throat tightens.

He can’t _breathe_.

All bravado gone, he scrambles desperately to try and pull the hands from around his throat, but his vision is closing in, and there’s an eerie screaming in his ears. It’s a ringing so loud that he doesn’t register the shot for a few seconds but when he does, it’s a shot that snaps him quickly into sobriety.

Spluttering, Roy drags in a deep breath, coughing on the exhale as he sinks to the floor, slumping against the wall as he cradles his throat. He lifts his eyes, noting that one of the oafs has a bullet hole-shaped chunk missing from one ear, and they’re wailing about it like a child.

It brings a sly smile to Roy’s face.

Glancing around, he seeks out the figure of his saviour. Eyes travelling up the lines of their legs, the curve of their waist and, up past their chest, he meets those honey-brown eyes; the ones that had first caught his attention when she’d stepped into the bar.

It’s _her_. The Deadeye.

And she’s offering him her hand.

He takes it without a second thought, and she hauls him to his feet in one smooth motion.

He smiles at her, but she’s already turned to the barkeep, her pistol once again holstered in the belt at her hip, “I’d say his tab is settled, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man simply nods, cradling his still-bleeding ear.

Roy watches as she turns to leave, unsure if the instruction is to follow her or simply make himself _very_ scarce _very_ quickly.

Either way, he isn’t about to hang around for half a second longer.

He follows close behind on her heels, trousers all but brushing the spikes of her spurs as she walks.

“Thank you,” Roy says, the words spilling awkwardly out of his mouth. He’s unsure how someone like her will react. She’s _dangerous_ but she’s also the first person to show him kindness in months. And, for that reason, Roy isn’t willing to lose sight of her so easily.

She replies with a cursory glance over her shoulder and a simple shrug, “Couldn’t exactly just sit there and watch them beat you to a bloody pulp. Would’ve really put a dampener on my own drink.”

Roy chuckles.

“Even so,” he begins, “I’m just not sure why you’d step in to help someone like me.”

She says nothing.

And Roy decides it’s best to not press her about it any further.

They walk the rest of the way to the hitching post in silence. By her steed’s side sits a black and white mutt with a pink tongue which wags loosely out of the side of its mouth upon first sight of its mistress returning. The dog starts leaping up at her.

“Sit, Hayate,” the woman instructs coolly, before stooping to reward the dog with a scratch behind its ear.

Roy can’t help but smile at the scene.

“Nice dog,” he says conversationally with an easy smile.

The woman _smiles_ back at that and does something that Roy doesn’t quite expect.

She offers him her hand again.

“They call me a deadeye with a gun,” she explains. “But I prefer Riza. Riza Hawkeye.”

He takes her hand and shakes it.

“Pleasure. My name’s Roy. Roy Mustang.”


	2. sunsets and firelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back, back again ;)  
> thank you to everyone who read, left comments and kudos, it really inspired me to write more :3  
> hope y'all enjoy more fma cowboy juice  
> this time ft roy and riza beside a campfire; what will they repress?  
> yeehaw <3

They’ve been riding for a few hours now.

Atop their respective steeds, and side-by-side, the journey has mostly passed in silence with nought but the sound of hooves against the prairie to disturb the peace.

He’s made casual conversation a few times.

But Riza doesn’t seem all that keen to talk.

It isn’t born out of rudeness, no, Roy instead supposes that she simply isn’t all that used to company.

After all, most gunslingers like her tend to go it alone.

Roy can’t think of anything _worse_ , these few weeks he’s spent alone have been enough hell for one lifetime.

So, he’s _glad_ for her company.

The sun is low in the sky, its orange hue casting shadows across the plains, and bathing them both in evening rays. There’s just something all the more ethereal about watching the sunset from horseback, Roy decides.

And the colour of the sky reminds him of her eyes again.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Roy pipes up, throwing his glance momentarily in her direction before continuing to observe as the sun dips steadily beneath the horizon and out of sight.

He wonders just how many sunsets she’s watched out here alone.

She merely hums, “We should think about making camp soon. It won’t be long until it’s dark.”

“It is getting cold,” Roy agrees.

She turns her head back towards him, “I think that’s just the alcohol making you feel cold.”

She’s right, of course.

The effects of the alcohol still linger within Roy’s system, even despite the sobering experience of the bar fight. There’s a dull throbbing behind his eyes and in his temples that tells him the morning hangover is going to be _killer_.

But that’s a problem for the Roy of tomorrow.

They canter for a little while longer, Riza’s dog contributing the occasional bark at its own shadow, before the woman stops suddenly and dismounts from her horse.

“This seems like as good a place as any,” she informs him as she surveys the area with hands poised sharply at her waist.

Roy decides to defer to her judgment. Frankly, he’s not so sure what makes this particular spot any better than the miles and _endless_ _miles_ of dust they’ve already trekked through today, but he’s happy to stop. He’s exhausted, and his own Mustang beneath him is flagging too.

It’s been a long day.

Clambering down from his horse with about as much grace, coordination and dignity that a drunkard can have, Roy successfully manages to get his boot caught in his stirrup.

Overshooting the force required to release his foot, Roy sends himself toppling backwards and he lands with a harsh _thud_ , his back stinging against the ground. 

“Ow!” He splutters, choking on the dust his impact kicked up. Escorting a hand behind himself, Roy rubs at the impact site on his back and knows that it’s _definitely_ going to bruise.

He silently hopes that Riza hasn’t just seen him make a complete _arse_ of himself.

She has.

“I’m impressed you were able to stay upright on your horse for the entire ride,” Riza explains, arms full of bundled canvas and bedrolls, with her amusement barely concealed.

“I’ve been way more drunk than this before,” Roy states, wearing it like a badge of honour. He grins up at her dumbly, but she isn’t impressed in the slightest.

“Here,” she says with a curt roll of her eyes, dropping a bedroll down onto Roy’s stomach like a dead weight.

It’s the second time today he’s had the wind knocked out of him, this time his legs shoot comically upwards and curl inwards towards his chest from the bedroll’s impact.

_I probably deserved that,_ he thinks.

Standing to his full height eventually, and pushing the bedroll underneath his arm, Roy moves to tie his steed to the abandoned fencepost next to Riza’s own. He brushes his palm gently down the horse’s snout, offering her praises and a fuss behind one ear.

Riza has already set about making her tent when Roy strides back over, she’s efficient in its assembly and he supposes it must be second nature for her by this point.

The same can’t be said for him.

Rolling out the bedroll is simple enough, but setting up a tent? Roy’s sure that he doesn’t have enough arms.

And his alcohol addled mind is doing _nothing_ to help the situation.

After what feels like _hours_ of fumbling, and ending up with his head trapped inside the canvas _somehow_ , he feels another pair of hands take the material and help to free him.

“Here, let me,” Riza says softly, impressed by Roy’s enthusiasm, but amused by his failure. “You collect the firewood instead.”

That’s probably a little bit more up to his speed.

A short stroll away from the camp leads him to a babbling stream; on its banks, he finds dried perennial grasses and old branches. He puffs his chest out in victory and gathers arms full of the stuff so that he can make a sufficient fire.

His foraging effort successful, he returns to camp to find Riza proudly stood beside his tent, making the final few adjustments to ensure the structure is secure.

“Thanks,” Roy says with an honest smile, “Found us some firewood too.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Just set it down over there.”

Depositing the wood, leaves and twigs into a heap, Roy reaches into his pocket to extract his lighter.

It’s pure silver, an heirloom from the father he’s never met.

Successfully sparking the fire to life with a flick of his wrist, Roy re-caps the lighter and passes his thumb idly over the initialled engraving.

He only realises he’s been daydreaming when Riza breaks the silence between them.

He realises she’s scowling.

“What was that?” Roy asks, not having heard what she’d said the first time due to his personal distraction.

“I asked if you smoke,” she repeats, voice laced with apprehension as she gestures pointedly towards the lighter, her lip curled in something like distaste.

He laughs, “Only on days with a ‘y’ in them!”

She’s not laughing. She doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Well,” she begins curtly, “If you must smoke, I’d rather you didn’t do it in camp.”

Roy blinks, confused, his brow furrowed tightly. _Yes mother_ , he thinks, but he’s able to bite his tongue.

Instead, he nods and simply re-pockets the lighter, “You’ve got it.”

***

Roy’s stomach gurgles in anticipation, a reminder of just how little he’s eaten over the past few days, as Riza stirs a pot of beans which sits warming enticingly over the fire.

She’s already passed him a bowl; it’s simple, wooden, and nothing like the silverware he’d been used to back when he was a sheriff.

“Should be warm enough by now,” Riza hums, extending her arm outwardly towards Roy.

He passes her the bowl, eyeing her over the top of it with an expression akin to a puppy begging for scraps, as she begins to fill it.

“Please, ma’am,” he drawls, “May I have some more?”

“Idiot,” she says endearingly with a shake of her head. “Fine, you can have another scoop.”

Victorious, and with his bowl piled high, Roy immediately gets to work. Jamming his spoon deep into the bowl, he piles up a hefty portion and pushes it deep into his mouth.

He watches keenly as Riza sets aside a more conservative portion for herself before seating herself down beside him. She has a bottle in hand, too. Roy hopes that it’s something _strong_. He holds his hand out expectantly.

She scoffs.

“Absolutely not,” Riza scolds. Instead, she tosses him a bota bag. “It’s water-only for you, at least until you sober up.”

Roy whines, catching the bottle and uncapping it before taking a glug. He’s almost forgotten what water tastes like.

They nourish themselves in silence for a while longer until both of their bowls are emptied. She collects his, rises to her feet, and sets them aside to wash in the morning.

Roy wonders if she ever stops thinking about what’s next.

But he also supposes that ignorance is a luxury not afforded by those who call the Wild West their home.

It’s a while before she seats herself beside him again and, when she does, she has another bottle in hand. She sips slowly from it, her focus trained on the flickering campfire.

“You really know your way around out here, huh?” Roy asks, shattering the silence, and keen to know more about her. 

“I’ve lived out here almost my whole life. It’s all I’ve ever known,” she explains, casting her sepia eyes over to him.

He frowns, “Have you _always_ been out here alone?”

“Not always,” she sighs after a pause. “It used to be me and my father.”

Her eyes drift back over towards the campfire and stare idly ahead, deep in thought.

He’s clearly prodded a nerve.

“My aunt raised me,” he interjects quickly, keen to change the subject and regain her focus.

It works. A small smile plays at her lips, a curiousness in her eyes.

“Here, just let me –” He sticks out his tongue and purses it between his lips as he rummages around the deep inside pocket of his overcoat. He finally finds his prize.

In the palm of his hand sits a gold pocket-watch; it shimmers in the dull light of the campfire, the seal of the lion clear on its front. He brushes off the lint and blows on it before he buffs it clean with the corner of his sleeve.

Her eyes are wide when he looks up.

He swallows.

She points towards the watch inquisitively, “Is that gold?”

He nods.

Something like a frown sets about her face again.

“My aunt gave it to me,” he explains.

He supposes it’s entirely likely that Riza may never have seen gold in the flesh before, especially not all the way out here.

He pushes the clasp on the watch with his thumb and reveals the clockface and small photograph inside. 

He hands the photograph to her.

“That’s me and, as you can see, I’ve gotten more _handsome_ with age,” he grins.

She chuckles with a shake of her head, her frown dissipated.

Next, Roy jabs a finger at the other figure on the photograph, “And that stubborn battle-axe right there is my aunt.”

“I can see the resemblance,” Riza notes quietly, studying the photograph.

“She raised me. I never knew my folks. They died when I was young. She never told me exactly what happened to them. Said it wouldn’t do any good to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Riza notes apologetically.

He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, “Don’t be. No use mourning parents I never knew, right?”

She hands him back the photograph, nodding her head, a flickering sadness in her own eyes, “I never knew my mother, either. She died having me, so I understand.”

Roy swallows, eyeing her apologetically, “That must be hard.”

She shakes her head, “It’s like you said, no using in mourning, even my father never spoke about her.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I am sorry.”

She nods again, “Thank you.”

He leans to rest on his elbow, looking up at her.

“Hey, who needs blood relatives when you’ve got a horse, a dog, and a drunkard to look after, right?”

Sharp as a tack, she fires back, “Who says I’m keeping you?”

Roy chuckles, “Fair enough.”

At least it made her smile again.

Riza finishes her drink silently and rises to her feet. Dusting herself down, she eyes Roy like a mother scolding a son for staying up way beyond his bedtime. “It’s late,” she says, “And _you_ need to sleep the alcohol off.”

“I’ll go take a leak,” Roy tells her, “Then I’ll head straight to bed.”

She scrunches up her nose and Roy supposes that they don’t know each other well enough for toilet humour just yet.

Hayate has joined the woman’s side by the time Roy has managed to drag himself back onto his feet; the dog patters obediently inside the tent as Riza holds open its entrance.

He can’t help but smile at the sweet scene.

But he also can’t help but be a little bit _jealous_.

He’s about to ready himself for bed when he notices that she pauses before entering the tent herself.

She looks to him.

“Goodnight, Mr. Mustang,” Riza breathes softly.

Now, that makes his heart flutter.

He beams, nodding enthusiastically in acknowledgment, “Sweet dreams, Ms. Hawkeye.” 

He watches as she disappears out of sight. Smiling fondly to himself for a few seconds, his brain eventually catches up and rather unhelpfully reminds him that he still really, _really_ needs to pee.


End file.
